The Flowers Of Life Are But Illusions.

Two Souls Dwell, Alas! In My Breast.

Mannerism Is Always Longing To Have Done, And Has No True Enjoyment In Work. A Genuine, Really Great Talent, On The Other Hand, Has Its Greatest Happiness In Execution.

Whoever Gives Himself Up To Solitude, Ah! He Is Soon Alone.

The Most Fortunate Of Men, Be He A King Or Commoner, Is He Whose Welfare Is Assured In His Own Home.

I Always Had An Aversion To Your Apostles Of Freedom; Each But Sought For Himself Freedom To Do What He Liked.